The crunch of the dried leaves, the gentle rustling of the trees as they creak and ache. The howling of the wind late at night, rattling against the window panes. The occasional burst of rain, pouring down, drumming along the roadways. Sometimes, there was the rumble of thunder and the crack of lightning that briefly lit up the sky.

The click and clatter of baking instruments being pulled out, the sound of ingredients being measured and mixed, and the call of a mother announcing the cookies were ready; the children laughing as they ran back home.

The sounds of weapons being shifted around; the sharp twang of arrows being released, and the thud that follows when it makes its mark. The soldiers moving around, shifting restlessly as the days tick closer to the assembly, their swords whistling in the chilly air.

The soft, barely noticeable brush of a painter's touch, mapping out the near silent mist.

The click-click of knitting needles. The gentle, persistent rocking of a chair.

Mrs. Weaver closes her eyes.

Fall is here.